A poem
by Rianiel
Summary: With the help of the scholarly Faramir, Éowyn crafts a poem about her Uncle and the passing of life itself.


A tribute to my mother's memory.

A Poem

_With the help of the scholarly Faramir, __Éowyn crafts a poem about her Uncle._

Éowyn found it hard to think. She sat in the Gardens of Ithilien, one hand cupping her chin, the other a quill that she tapped on an unfinished poem. Nearly a whole year she had been here in this glorious corner of Middle Earth, though she was not yet with child, Éowyn had tended to the gardens just as tenderly and lovingly; absorbing the life and colour that grew in the summer sun. But not all things were perfect, that she knew. Not all good things lasted. But surely it could?

She may have tended to a declining uncle after her parents died, but hope did exist. She had been the hope of her people, her hope had lain in the heart of Faramir and here she sat, a woman in love, but still scarred with sadness. She would no longer see her uncle, except in her dreams.

Goodness, she seethed, am I to be ailed in this peaceful place?

Yes, said a small voice in her head, you are only human …

"You look troubled," said a voice. Éowyn recognised it, and the form of Faramir slipped into a chair beside her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"No," assured Éowyn, forcing a smile. "I'm fine."

She knew her answer was vacuous; her body was tense beneath Faramir's palm and the Gondorian's face clouded with concern.

"What is wrong, my love?"

Éowyn looked away from his grey gaze. She could tell him. For too long she had hidden herself away …

"I still miss him."

"King Théoden?"

"My Uncle, yes," replied Éowyn, now staring at the quill she was twisting harshly in her fingers. "He is still here."

Faramir sighed and planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck, wrapping his arms around her. "We're not like the elves," he said into her hair. "Where life passes so quickly and unseeingly. To us, life is more beautiful and precious because we are fated. Queen Arwen now pays the price of her mortality and time now ticks away with each heartbeat."

Éowyn smiled wryly, though her eyes felt oddly bright. "You've always had a way with words, my love," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

"Well … you too," Faramir said. He then caught sight of the parchment on Éowyn's lap. Before she could stop him, he reached down and picked it up. He read it at arm's length, his face becoming more benign with each line. "Well, well, well … you never said you were a bard."

"Bard!" said Éowyn, laughing in spite of the fact he had read something so personal. Then she remembered it was Faramir and that did not matter. "Gleowine conducted a wonderful lament at my Uncle's funeral."

Faramir continued to gaze at the poem. "That he did," he murmured. He seemed to be thinking of something.

"I am stuck for the last stanza, Faramir," said Éowyn sheepishly, whilst she watched her husband. "I do not know what to put about my Uncle. His great deeds as King will stay forever in people's memories and in other poems and songs. But not this … I – I," she gazed at her knuckles which were clenched. "I want to write something that isn't … banal."

Faramir smiled slightly and gently took the quill from Éowyn's hand. "May I?" he asked, the quill poised over the parchment. Éowyn nodded. For a few moments he scratched away; birds twittered and a faint breeze ran through the trees. When he had finished he passed it to Éowyn, who read it aloud:

"_What is death but a passing?_

_A lingering sore that heals_

_And fades away in time_

_Like the frost on frozen grass_

_Melting _

_On a tentative spring morning_

_What is pain but a feeling? _

_It crawls beneath its shroud_

_When you trust to move on_

_Like a wild horse upon the Westemnet_

_It takes its own course to be tamed_

_What is life but a journey? _

_One, that all must tread_

_He lies in noble silence_

_Cloaked in white_

_O'er his shroud_

_Smiling in the place where all is beautiful." _

"I … I like it," she smiled, placing the parchment on her knee. She rested her head on Faramir's chest. "All good things will last, my love. Just as long as you're around."

"I say the same thing to you," replied Faramir. "Will there be more times for you to be a Shieldmaiden?"

Éowyn laughed softly. "I will need more than a warrior's bravery to birth and raise our children."

They both laughed, then sat and watched the summer sun gradually turn red behind the trees.


End file.
